


Reflections

by PunkyNemo (TheVampireCat)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mirrors, Shameless Smut, Smut, Some Fluff, also porn, and more shamless smut, and porn without plot, body issues, like blink and you'll miss it, slight D/s, very slight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3633297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVampireCat/pseuds/PunkyNemo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s trying things now. Different things, new things. Asking if he can. Asking if he can’t. And he’s growing in confidence too. Everyday. At first it’s small changes. Confident kisses. A hand on her thigh, her ass. And then later those little things lead to bigger ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to Bethyl smut weekend. This is filth and there is nothing clever here. There’s nothing particularly well written either because a lot of this was done on the fly and I’ve had a nasty week which has left little time. I apologise. So it’s a little kinky and a little naughty.
> 
> Enjoy, all you sexy people.

_If you could see yourself the way I do_  
_You’d wish you were as beautiful as you_  
\- Ugly, Jon Bon Jovi

  


Sometimes she can’t believe they’re here. That they’re both alive and that they’ve found something as close to normal as could possibly exist in this world. They have family, they have friends. And, despite everything, despite who he is and who she is and who they are together and apart, they have each other.

It took long enough. No, not just aborted confessions and kidnappings. Not a bullet through her brain and scars on her face that will never heal. But him. And her. And getting to that point where they can talk about this, where they can do this and believe this. Where they’re both comfortable and trusting enough to laugh, to love. And yes, to make love.

And he’s trying things now. Different things, new things. Asking if he can. Asking if he can’t. And he’s growing in confidence too. Everyday. At first it’s small changes. Confident kisses. A hand on her thigh, her ass. And then later those little things lead to bigger ones. 

And she can’t help but feel that it’s like he’s learning. Like he’s just figuring this all out. That touching is okay, that kissing is better and that her hands on him mean good things, happy things. Sometimes she think it’s as simple and as complicated as rehabilitating an abused dog. Rebuilding trust, through positive reinforcement. And it’s working. It’s working so well.

She’s learning too. Learning how strong he is. How his muscles shift tight and hard under his skin. How his belly contracts under her hands and how sharp his hips are against her thumbs. She’s also slowly coming to understand how to touch his back. How to approach him so that he doesn’t flinch. So that he trusts it. Enjoys it even. So that he knows how beautiful he is and how she’ll treasure him and make him feel good. As good as he makes her feel.

They’re discovering things together and that’s good. There’s no one else she’d rather do it with.

They go slow, really slow. At first they went so slow that he nearly killed her with his gentle kisses, with his slow touches.

 _I’m not glass,_ she told him once and he pulled back to look at her, ran his thumb over her swollen lips.

 _Yeah, yeah you are,_ he said. 

But they’ve figured stuff out now. A lot of it at least. There’s always more. She thinks there always will be. But it works. He touches her and kisses her and explores her. He lets her do the same. And her breath still hitches in her throat and at times she still trembles and he does too. And it can be scary. Not bad scary. It’s not like she’s actually frightened. She can’t be frightened of him. She knows him too well, him with his brooding eyes and his set jaw, hands that can maim and torture just as easily as they can soothe and caress. And it’s a thing now for him, the fact that he can. That he _can_ touch her. Like they opened a gate and now he doesn’t know how to close it again. And she hopes he never figures it out, because the way he puts his hands on her, that reverence, that humility, is something she’ll never find again and never look for with anyone else. And he makes her feel beautiful. So beautiful that sometimes she forgets she is scarred. That she is thin and that she's small.

So no, she’s not frightened of him, but maybe of this thing between them. Of the things she wants from him, of how much she loves him and how nothing she did with Jimmy or Zach could have ever really prepared for how fiercely she loves him and how truly desperate she is to be with him.

They make love. A lot. Probably even more than Glenn and Maggie. Not that anyone’s counting. And he takes his time. And he gets her wet. So, so wet that sometimes she just wants to scream at him to do it, do it now. And she’s disappointed when he doesn’t. But she’s really not. And when she gets like that - loud, incoherent, begging - she can see how proud he is. 

Of himself. Of her. Of this thing that they have. And the fact that he helped them make it.

She gets it. She really does. Sees him for who he is and what he is. And she knows this is huge for him. Not only because she’s young. Oddly, that’s the least of their issues. But because he’s him. Because he’s spent his whole life fighting and lashing out. Blustering at the world and pushing against it. And she knows she throws him off just by loving him, by accepting him. By letting him treasure her and treat her like glass he thinks she is. That she’s knows she’s not.

She brings him to his knees. She knows this. And that’s okay. Because he brings her to hers as well. 

And yeah, there’s a lot you can do on your knees.

They got past that too. Well, mostly. He’s still tentative about letting her take him in her mouth, even though he’s happy to bury his head between her legs for hours. Like he thinks he doesn’t deserve it or something. Like he thinks it’s not for him. And the truth is, it isn’t for him. Not all of it. It’s for her too, but they’re working on that. Working on a lot of things. They’ll get there. She’s not worried anymore. They will. 

He’s started saying it now too. In words. That he loves her. And the thing is she always knew it. Because with Daryl it’s not about the words. It’s about everything. It’s the way he talks to her, the way he looks at her. He doesn’t need to say it because the truth is he _is_ it. Everyone knows. Because he can’t hide it. He’s guileless in a way she almost - _almost_ \- doesn’t understand. Except she does. And she wouldn’t change it. Not for the world.

There’s no ego, there’s no games. There’s just Daryl. Nothing hidden. And she hopes she can be that for him too. Just Beth. She thinks she is. She hopes she is.

They’re okay, she’s okay.

He waits for her after work every day. When it’s hot they sometimes go to the park, sit there and feed pigeons. And he holds her hand and she rests her head on his shoulder while he presses kisses into her hair. Like he can. Like he’s allowed. Because he is and the brush of his lips against her temple, her cheek, her ear, sends a thrill through her she doesn’t understand and doesn’t much care to.

And, as the afternoon wanes, his kisses get harder, darker, more persistent against her and she finds herself turning into him, breathing the smell of leather and smoke into her lungs and eventually pressing her own lips to his skin. Tasting him and teasing him until he asks her huskily if they should go. 

And they do. Always back to where he stays with Aaron and Eric. Never back to Maggie and Glenn. It’s not that it’s a secret. It isn’t. But something about screwing under the same roof as her sister makes them both uncomfortable. And it’s just easier at his place. Easier to be themselves. Whoever that may be. Sometimes she spends the night, when he’s well and truly fucked her and she’s exhausted and quivering and he wraps her up in his arms and whispers _Stay_ into her ear.

And of course she’ll stay. He doesn’t have to ask.

Aaron’s asked her to move in. Jokingly at first and then more seriously, earnestly. Tells her that he gets it now. He understands Daryl, and that she was the only thing that kept him hanging on. But she’s not ready to leave Maggie yet. So she tells him _soon_. Soon she’ll move in.

And even though no one judges and even though she wouldn’t care if they did, she’s grateful for how accepting Aaron and Eric are. Sure, there are the smiles, knowing and otherwise, but it doesn’t matter. They're there own little band of misfits. And it suits them all just fine.

And that’s why that hot July Friday afternoon is different. Not because she’s naked and Daryl’s naked and his mouth is busy roaming her body and his hands are everywhere. Not because she’s wet and hot and dying for him to have her. But because, for the first time, they _are_ in her room. In the house where Maggie and Glenn live. Sure, they're not here right now and won't be for a few hours and sure, it's not like they don't know about this and sure, they don't care one way or another and it wouldn't matter if they did. But it still feels new and a little different. And that in itself is a thrill she guesses and then wants to laugh at their naïveté and inexperience. 

She didn't plan it like this. Not at all. In fact the plan has been normal. Go to the park, press kisses into each other’s skin until they can’t stand it and then head back to his place. No reason to change anything.

And they hadn’t. Less than two hours before he'd been waiting outside the school for her like he always does, hands in his pockets trying not to grin as the kids sped past him on their way home, all waving and looking forward to the weekend. 

And she was too. Because the last few days have been a clusterfuck of frustration and disappointment. They'd lost someone on Tuesday and although it wasn't someone either of them knew, these things get to them. They shouldn't because they know better than anyone just how fragile this existence is. But it did. And she'd spent Tuesday night mostly talking it through with Aaron and Eric before turning in and wrapping her arms around Daryl while he shook a little against her. She gets it. Things like that make him remember all they've lost. Make him remember losing her. Not once but twice and that scares him more than he says. He'd seemed better the next morning though, running a rough hand through her hair and kissing her cheeks gently before heading out. Told her he'd see her soon. That he’d be waiting for her when school finished. But that was a lie because they had a breach in the wall that afternoon and he'd been called away almost the second she stepped out of the door.

And he hadn't come home, not until the early hours of Thursday morning. Dead on his feet, but with just enough time to eat and shower before he headed out again. He told her that it was bad, really bad. The build up of walkers, the way the wall seemed to crumble like paper against their onslaught. Said he had half a mind to call for an evacuation. Find her and just run into the night. Like they once had. Like she still dreams of doing again.

He was apologetic, said he'd missed her but she'd waved it away. There's no need for apologies. Not for this, not for them. He told her he'd see her later, they'd go to the park and feed the birds. But when Thursday afternoon rolled around he was exhausted, words slurred and fuzzy, barely able to keep his eyes open and they'd skipped the park and he turned in early, while she read something lame and boring at his side before giving up in favour of just lying quietly next to him.

She's found she likes watching him sleep. He looks peaceful and sometimes when she presses herself close to him she can feel a little smile against her skin.

So she watched him for a while, before kissing his neck and easing herself away to her side of the bed. It's too hot to sleep too close and even when it isn't, he's like a furnace at night. Always has been, which was great for those nights in the woods when she'd curl into his side. But it’s not so great now in the height of summer, when she can feel the sweat of his belly against her back and the heat of his arousal at her thighs.

Well maybe that is great. But it’s great in a wholly different kind of way.

Great in the way that she’d woken up on Friday morning with his head between her legs, his tongue drawing circles over her clit as he rolled the hot little nub between his teeth, one hand pressing on her stomach the other rubbing against her opening.

She’d gasped his name and before she was even fully awake she was arching her hips towards him, shifting her legs over his shoulder to open herself to him. Fully and completely.

Let him have her. Let him have her anyway he wants.

And he would have. He really would have. She could feel it in the way he lapped at her. Because sometimes he’s gentle and teasing and he likes to make her wait and make it last. But other times, other times like this morning he was different. Determined. Hand sliding from her stomach to her ass and lifting her to his mouth, running long hard strokes over her lips and then her clit, sucking on her as his fingers fucked her deep and hard, pressing against her in such a way that she was sure she was going to lose her mind or fall apart right on the spot. Maybe both.

It wasn’t long and she was saying nonsense words that sounded just like his name, gasping and digging her fingers into his hair, hips rolling into his mouth, revelling at the scrape of his teeth against her flesh. Maybe that should have scared her but it never does. Even when he’s rough, he’s gentle, even when he’s tough, he’s kind and sweet.

And she was so close, just one more swirl of his tongue, pump of his fingers. Hell, he could probably have said her name against her wet flesh and she would come on the spot.

Except she didn’t. She didn’t because there was a rapid succession of knocks against the door and then Aaron’s voice outside.

“Daryl, come on. We gotta go. That wall’s caved again.”

And that was it. He was wrenching away even before the sound of Aaron’s voice died, lips wet and shiny from her and she could have screamed with the frustration.

“Sorry, girl,” he said as he pulled his jeans on, grabbing at a shirt.

And she didn’t want to say it’s okay but it was. Because it had to be.

And she thought he’d just leave but he didn’t. Instead he’d slid a hand into her hair and kissed her hard and deep and she could taste herself on his lips. And that made her want to scream all the more.

“Love you Greene,” he whispered and she smiled.

She never gets tired of hearing it. even though she knows that’s sappy and silly. And from him too. It’s such a big thing for him and at first he’d struggled so hard with the words. But it got easier. He learnt. She learnt. And she knows now. And she won’t ever forget.

And then he was gone.

So yes, the day started with a lot of promise and now in her bed, hours later it's time for him to make good on it. 

Because these hours have been hard. Because singing songs about Michael rowing his goddamned boat ashore and reading stories about giant peaches while you have an ache between your legs and another in your head...

And that was another problem. Because she wants to do right in this job, by these kids. She wants them to have normal. Even when nothing is normal any more.

But still, Daryl and his gaze, Daryl and his mouth, Daryl and just the fucking way he makes her feel, physically and emotionally left her on edge the whole day.

And she could have wept with the frustration when the first thing he told her as she followed that crowd of kids out the school was that Aaron and Eric were having people around for a barbecue and sure, they're invited if she really wants to rub shoulders with Alexandria's upper crust, if such a thing even exists.

Which of course neither of them did.

So that’s why they'd broken their unspoken rule and ended up in her room. And it’s fine. It really is. It’s spartan, a bed, a cabinet and a stupid oversized mirror. She hasn’t had time to decorate as she wants but maybe that’s because she’s waiting. Waiting for it to be something they can do together.

And now they're naked and he's telling her she's beautiful. And there’s still that twinge when he says this because with her scars she's not so sure. But really there's no time for that because he's moving from her nipple, from rolling it between his goddamned teeth while he smirks up at her, and he's tonguing his way over her belly, biting softly at the flesh of her hip, her thigh before nuzzling against where she's hot and wet and throbbing.

And it's different here because her room is also lighter than his and she can see better. It's hotter too, catching the afternoon sun and she can already feel sweat on the back of her thighs and between her breasts.

And him? Well he looks like a fucking monster between her legs, huge and feral, damp hair against his forehead and ink standing out harshly against his skin.

They've opened a window but there's almost no breeze and Maggie's been hogging the fan and the last thing she wants to do now is go looking for it. Not when he's sucking on her clit and his fingers are inside her, pressing hard against that spot that makes her squirm. 

No, she thinks, there is literally nothing on earth that could get her out of this bed until he's finished what he started this morning. No walkers, no herds, not even Maggie and Glenn coming home. Nothing until he's done her good and proper like he always does. Nothing until he makes good on his promise

Except there is

Because when he adds a third finger, hard and firm and stretching her just to the point of discomfort, she arches up to meet him. And she’s not sure if it's instinctual or if she just wanted to glare at him, but it doesn’t matter. Because suddenly she’s distracted by what she sees. And it’s not him between her legs. It’s her. It’s her reflected in that damned mirror because somehow it’s perfectly angled towards the bed. Perfectly. As if she placed it there specifically for this purpose. Which she didn’t. 

And it shouldn’t be a thing. It _really_ shouldn’t. Because she's tousled and flushed and there’s a man between her thighs and it’s beautiful. It truly is. It’s all beautiful.

Except for one thing.

Except for her and her scars.

So many scars. Marring her cheek and brow and finally her forehead. She hates that one most of all. And then her gaze drifts down. Down to her small breasts, her thin hips and those coltish legs which may be more suited to an 11-year-old girl than a 19-year-old woman.

And she knows it’s no time for this, no time to scrutinise herself, no time for vanity. There hasn’t been time for that for years now. But there’s something about those lines on her face, that broken skin that gives her pause, that makes her stop, makes her forget about the man crouching over for a moment.

Somewhere she’s aware he’s saying something to her, to the girl in the mirror. Somewhere she’s aware his tongue is no longer on her and that his fingers aren’t inside her. But it seems very far away. So far. In a place maybe where she doesn’t have scars and she wasn’t shot in the head.

"Beth?" He asks, chewing his lip. "You alright?"

He shifts to his knees and her eyes flicker towards him and for a second she's wildly distracted by how hard he is.

 _I want to take him in my mouth,_ she thinks, _I want to make him feel so good. As good as he makes me feel. Or close as I can._

"Beth?" He says again touching her jaw, hand rough against her skin. And she just wants to close her eyes and drown in him in that moment. The way he treats her, the way he loves her and the way he approaches this as if every single time they make love it's both a surprise and an honour.

If someone had told her a year ago that she'd love Daryl Dixon like this she would have laughed. Maybe he would have too. Although she doesn't think he believes this is a laughing matter. And yet here she is. And here he is. And they're making love. And she thinks he's the most wonderful man in the world. And she can't even remember what it was like not to love him.

It's like he answers some question in her soul, her heart, her head and yes, her body and sometimes she wants to weep for it. Weep for the girl who made out with Jimmy behind her daddy's barn and Zach in the guard tower

That poor girl, that poor sweet innocent unscarred girl. 

It occurs to her that on some level she misses who she was. No, she doesn’t want to go back. Even if she could. Life without Daryl is something almost inconceivable to her. But at the same time there's something about seeing her scars, about seeing herself next to her sister or some of their new friends like Rosita or Tara that leaves her feeling inadequate. Wanting. Not that he's ever said anything. God no. He worships her. He worships every last inch of her. He can't fake that. And he's not Abraham. He's never even given Rosita or Maggie a second glance in that way.

But still, _still_. Here she is, small and fragile and scarred. 

And she can't, she just can't.

And then she's grabbing a blanket, blue and lined with fleece, and slipping out from under him while he's still too dazed to do anything. She hears him sigh behind her and bury his face in the bed before rolling over onto his back and watching her through slitted eyes, arm behind his head.

"What are you doing, girl?" He asks, voice more curious than exasperated.

"I just wanted to cover this up," she says, draping the blanket over the wooden frame, adjusting it so she can only see her feet sticking out of the bottom.

"Why?" He asks. He's always asking why. _Why do you want this? Why are we together? Why do you wanna leave a thank you note?_

She sighs and turns to look at him, lying there in the sunlight. Skin shiny with sweat. At his broad shoulders, his long hair, the hard cock rising up between muscular thighs.

 _He could break me,_ she thinks. _If he wanted to, he could._

And there's no fear in that. 

Because he won't. 

"Just don't like lookin' at us like this you know?"

He frowns and sits up, swings his legs over  the edge of the bed.

"Why?"

She shrugs.

"It's just a bit weird you know?"

He shakes his head. And she knows he’s not just being obtuse, that he hasn’t jumped to any assumptions or conclusions. She knows he honestly doesn’t get it and wants her to explain it to him so that he does. It’s not a test or a game or even the slightest hint of coyness. This is him. Interested in her and her motivations. Her thoughts and her secrets.

She smiles trying to keep the edge out if her voice. 

_Keep it light Greene, keep the whimsy._

"I guess I don't really like looking at myself ... like this."

And his frown deepens and she knows he's about to ask why again.

"I just don't like seeing this," she says quickly, and touches the scar on her forehead. "Or this." She makes a vague gesture at her chest.

He’s silent as he chews on his bottom lip, silent as he looks her up and down. Eyes lingering on her breasts and then her hips, the juncture of her thighs and then back to her face.

And it shouldn't, it really shouldn't, but there’s something about the way he's scrutinising her that makes her blush, even as she feels a fresh spurt of wetness between her legs. But it does. Because despite the fact that she doesn’t really like looking at herself, she likes him looking at her. She likes that slightly feral glint in his eyes, that way his jaw works as he’s mulling it over.

It wouldn't take much now. She knows this. Just the muggy almost stifling heat of the room against her clit is driving her a little crazy. Even his gaze against her flesh is heavy and if she closes her eyes she can almost feel it against where she's slick and hot and soaked.

"Come here Beth," he says holding out a hand to her. "And bring that blanket with you."

"Daryl I..."

"Do it."

And this is new. This is completely new. She knows he's always had a dominant side. And he always keeps it in check. Until he doesn't. Until he's gripping her wrists or her thighs and bearing down hard on her. But he's never expressed it. Not like this. Not in words. And she thinks it should frighten her, thinks maybe it would have once. Once before.

But not now.

Now it just makes her legs tremble and makes her wonder if he can see the flood of wetness running down her thighs.

She finds she doesn't care if he does though. Because she thinks it would make him proud. Proud of himself. Or maybe proud of her. She doesn't know because her head is buzzing and the heat of her skin has nothing to do with the temperature.

"Beth," he says again, voice thick, husky and her name on his lips makes goosebumps rise on her skin despite the flames in her belly.

She could argue. She really could. She's not sure she wants to. She's actually very interested to see where this will go, where he will go. And how far he'll take her.

How far he'll take himself.

So she pulls the blanket off the mirror and reaches for his hand.

Their fingers have barely touched and he’s gripping her wrist tightly pulling her hard into his lap so that she can feel the throb of his cock against her ass, the sweat of her back.

She tries to roll her hips against him but his hands are on her waist, hard and tight, stilling her, holding her in place.

"Wait," he whispers into her neck.

But she doesn't want to wait. She's hot and ready, she's been ready for days and months before that. And she can smell herself and she knows he can too. And it's too warm and too stuffy to be sitting like this in her room, pressed against each other like this.

Or not.

Because he takes the blanket out of her hands and covers her with it, right up to her neck, tucks it between them so she’s completely enveloped, the fleece tickling her legs and sticking to her uncomfortably, making her squirm against the heat. It isn’t even that the blanket is particularly cosy, but the day is and even its gentle rub on her flesh is too much.

“Daryl…” she starts but he cuts her off.

"Quiet," he tells her lips brushing against her ear and along her jaw. "Quiet."

And she can feel sweat beading between her breasts and the crease of her thigh, can feel it trapped between them as he presses against her back and nuzzles her neck. Her legs are slippery with it and the air trapped beneath the blanket already muggy.

He’s hot too. She can feel him like a furnace behind her. Heady and sticky and searing.

And then he kisses the scar on her cheek and he’s gentle, lips brushing over dead skin. Mouth moving softly against her. He moves his fingers from her hip to touch the line on her forehead.

And suddenly she doesn't care about the heat. She cares about him and the way he makes her feel. His lips on her skin, his cock throbbing for her - for _her_ \- at her back. 

He can bring her to her knees. But what's more surprising is how she brings him to his.

"Look girl," he whispers into her ear, his breath hot against her neck. "Look."

And she does. She looks straight into that mirror, into her eyes and into his. Looks at how his mouth is tracing her scar, moving down her cheek, to her neck, lips working methodically against her flesh, tongue darting out to taste her, while his hand works hard at her breast beneath the blanket.

And even though she’s too warm and the heat is stifling and there's far too much sweat between them she leans back against him, into him, closing her eyes against the stroke of his tongue over her flesh.

But he won’t let her. Instead he gives her a small shake.

"Look Beth," he whispers, except it's more of a hiss. It's demanding and a little forceful. Insistent even. And she realises that he's not asking. It's not a request, even though it is. He wants this, he needs her to listen to him. He needs her to watch. 

They’ve never really discussed this, never considered what would happen if he told her to do something. Never even played around at it. Control hasn’t been an issue. She doesn’t think it is now either.

He let's the blanket drop from her shoulders to just above her breasts and even the humid air of the bedroom feels cool against her skin when he does.

And then he’s back to tracing maddening circles against her skin with his tongue. Gooseflesh rising as he laps at her, licking the sweat of her, the salt of her.

But he keeps her facing forward, tells her to keep her eyes open. To watch. To see herself. And the truth is she barely recognises herself in the mirror, flushed and damp, hair wild and sticky and this man, this silent force of a man behind her, tasting her and teasing her like she's everything he's ever wanted.

And she is. She lets herself believe she is.

He sweeps her hair over her shoulder, moves his mouth to the back of her neck. The brush of teeth and more gooseflesh. More prickles, despite the heat, stifling and sticky under the blanket. 

She groans against him and feels his cock twitch, his hand tightens on her breast, sweaty palm against her sweaty nipple, fingers slipping on her skin.

"God, Daryl," she breathes, her voice is low and husky. Thick like his as she tries to roll her hips against his. 

He lets her, lets her try at least, but there's no friction to be found. No release as her legs slide on his. She tries again, feels his cock twitch, a sharp intake of air behind her and she grins at herself in the mirror. She's got him too, she knows she does.

But when she starts to move again he drops a hand to her hip. Holds her there. Tight, fingers gripping her wet skin.

It's far too hot under the blanket now, too hot in this room, in his arms. In her head and her blood. And he seems to know because he pulls the fleece down to her waist

And she wants to look away again. Away from her small breasts and pale nipples, that lack of curvature that left her awkward and disappointed growing up.

But she knows she can't. Because he won't let her. Because he wants to show her something. And she wants to be strong for him. Strong for herself.

He kisses her ear.

 _Watch_.

And she does. She watches as his hand covers her breast, kneads the flesh, fingers and thumb pressing rhythmically against her. She fits into his hand perfectly and she can see the whiteness of her skin through the rough tan of his fingers. And it makes her groan and shift against him, cover his other hand with hers and try to dislodge it from her waist, send it down her hip and between her legs. She wants him to know how wet she is. Even though she's pretty sure he can feel it already. Even though she's pretty sure he's not mistaking the slickness on his legs entirely for sweat.

She wonders what he'll think. If he'll say anything when he touches her there. He doesn't usually, maybe because he's shy, maybe because he doesn't have the words. 

But he's different this time. It's different this time. And the fact is she's desperate for him to explore her, to know what he's doing to her.

But he resists her. Fingers tightening on her as he struggles for purchase against her slippery skin. As the heat from him, the heat from her, is trapped beneath the blanket and it lies scratchy on her flesh.

She's starting to whine now. Not loud, not belligerent. Just low keening noises that he likes, that she _knows_ he likes with how he surges hard against her back. And even though he’s stoic and calm she also knows she’s getting to him, that he’s struggling against his own instincts to flip her over and have her right there. And she wouldn’t stop him, wouldn’t want to. That is where this is going after all. But still. _Still_ , she interested to see how far he’ll push beforehand. How long he can hold out.

And he’s doing pretty well so far, she thinks. Much better than her. Much, much better. Because his kisses are still slow and deliberate, his licks hard and purposeful against her neck before he bows his head to suck dark marks into her skin. 

But his eyes never leave hers. Not once. She knows he wants to be sure she's watching. She thinks he'll stop if she doesn't. And God, she doesn’t want that. Anything but that. But she also doesn't want to stop looking. Because she likes the subtle curves of her breasts and the way her nipples stand up hard and erect, the gently flush of colour which stands out beautifully against her pale skin and the faint blue veins beneath it. And she likes his hand on her as it plucks at her nipple making her gasp and squirm as he struggles to roll the small hard nub between his clammy fingers.

"Look how beautiful you are," he whispers in her ear. "Look."

And she gulps as he slides the hand at her waist up across her belly and ribs to cover her other breast. He squeezes gently, thumbs dragging across quivering flesh in some kind of ridiculous symmetry.

And fuck if she isn't beautiful. Fuck if she doesn't look fucking amazing with tousled hair and wild eyes, skin slicked with sweat as her body almost drowns in his. As his shoulders stand out behind hers, dark and strong and his lips press kisses into her flesh.

But she’s too hot now, far too hot, even though the blanket is now only covering from the waist down. She wants it off. She’s desperate for that icy wash of cool air which isn't cool at all. But she’s also desperate to see herself, to see them, fully. Once she may have sniggered at the cheesiness and playboy cliche of doing this in front of a mirror. But not now. Now she wants it, even though minutes ago she was covering it up. She wonders if she was actually covering herself up. And she really doesn’t want to do that anymore. So she kicks at the blanket, misses and then grabs the edge and tosses it to the floor.

"Yes," he whispers in her ear. "Yes."

And she feels an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. That and a new ache between her thighs. She's pleased him. Pleased him almost as much as he's pleasing her. And he is. With his mouth and his hands, his sweat and the throbbing cock pressed in her back.

He doesn’t have to remind her, doesn’t have to tell her, because now she looks. Looks long and hard at their reflection in the glass. At him, dark and broad at her back, at the contrast between his skin and hers. And she likes it. Loves it. Loves how they are together. 

And more than that she finds she likes her flat belly, the line of her hips, where she does in fact flare, where she's shamelessly curved and plump.

And it's then that he adjusts his legs under hers, moves them outwards so that hers open wide and she can see herself, her pink folds swollen and glistening, clit hard and erect between delicate lips.

She gasps. Gasps at everything. Her splayed thighs, her wet cunt, his hands, dark and rough, still kneading her soft skin.

"Look at you girl, look at you."

And even though this is for her, she can hear the tremor in his voice, the way it cracks next to her ear. Like she’s some kind of wonderful, fascinating thing he can’t truly comprehend, like he’s as overwhelmed by this as she is. He's seen her. Seen her so very many times. There's no part of her he hasn't watched, no part he hasn't explored with his fingers, his mouth. And yet... And yet she can hear the need in his voice, hear the veneration.

"Oh God," she rasps as his hands slip to her thighs, teases her entrance.

She wonders if she could just sit here like this, sit here on him, watching him caress her legs, kiss her neck and shoulders. There’s something about that that would not be wholly unsatisfying, that wouldn’t feel incomplete even if it did leave them both wanting.

But then he grips the skin of her inner thighs and wrenches them further apart until the tendons in her legs strain almost painfully against his fingers.

Almost. 

But not quite. Not pain, just a delicious heat that rises, rises up from her cunt, over her clit and settles in her belly. Settles and takes root and she feels like she’s burning from the inside out. 

“I got you,” he whispers in her ear, kisses still maddeningly soft. “I got you girl.”

And she knows he does. Can feel his heat at her back, his sweat dripping onto her skin. But she grips at his arms anyway, fingers digging hard and deep into her biceps, little cat claws that make him suck in his breath.

She tries to rub against him again but he holds her in place, eyes flicking between her face and the wet, pink shadows at her swollen centre. And even though he’s been so in control this time, so much more than he is usually, she can hear his breath coming out in heavy puffs against the back of her neck and feel his hips rising instinctively to press himself against her ass.

“Please,” she whispers. “Please Daryl.”

“You watch,” he says, voice firm. “You watch or I’ll stop.”

And she knows he’s lying. She knows he’s almost as far gone as she is. Knows she could smash that mirror, close her eyes and bury her head in his chest and he wouldn’t stop. Neither would she. Not even if seven years of bad luck were on the table. But she nods. Nods because her voice is stuck in the back of her throat. She won’t look away. She’s enjoying this too much. Enjoying him. Enjoying herself. Enjoying that goddamned looking glass and how it’s making her feel. And God, but she’s close. She so fucking close that she knows it’s not going to take much. A touch, a word, a goddamned breath of cool air and she’d be over the edge.

And then he slides his fingers to her clit, where it’s hot and throbbing, pink and wet and she writhes against him as he teases her with strokes so painfully slow she has to dig her nails into his arms again just to stop herself grabbing at his hands and forcing him to go faster.

And despite the fact that seconds ago she told herself she did not want to look away, she find that now she does. Not because she no longer wants to watch. Not at all. It's almost more out of habit, because when he does this and they’re facing one another or he’s looming over her, she likes to close her eyes against his chest, kiss his breastbone and breathe in the smell of his skin. But she won’t. Because he told her to watch. Watch as his fingers slide in her slickness, her sweat, as they roll her clit, skim it, pluck at it.

She swears under her breath and she can feel his grin against her shoulder even as he growls at her to keep looking. Tells her that if she even blinks for too long he’ll stop. And that’ll be it. Another night unsatisfied and who knows when they’ll get this chance again. 

He tells her this isn’t something she can afford to fuck up. That she needs to be strong for him. To listen to him. And watch. Watch as he makes her feel good, watch as he touches her and teases her.

And she tells him to shut up. To just shut up. Stop talking and get on with it. She grits the words out between her teeth because he’s flicking her clit with strong deliberate strokes and she’s about to go out of her head because she can’t take it any longer. And even over the blood roaring in her ears and the muggy heat of the room she hears him chuckle.

And then watches, fascinated, as he runs a hand down to her opening, moisture collecting on his skin before he slides two fingers deep into her swollen folds, penetrating her so that she gasps and arches against the intrusion. And he gasps too, swearing low and filthy into her ear about how wet she is.

And then he’s fucking her, fucking her hard and slow, hitting her clit with the palm of his hand and hitting something else, something deep and hidden inside her with his fingers. Something that makes her moan and squirm. Something that makes her feel like she’s flying and drowning all at once.

But she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t dare. Because somehow she’s managed to get herself to process his threat of stopping as real even though she knows it’s not. Somehow she’s managed to manifest a very realistic simulation of fear in her head. And the thought alone fans the flames in the pit of her stomach.

So she watches.

Watches as her breasts heave, as her belly flutters, as her thighs tremble. As his fingers pump in and out of her, each stroke wetter and harder than the last.

And she can’t believe this is her. Can’t believe she’s the same person who minutes ago was covering this mirror with an old blanket, who didn’t want to see her scars, or her small breasts or her thin coltish legs. And it’s not only because of her, of what she sees now, her wild hair and blown pupils her hard nipples and the rough fingers penetrating her wet cunt. It’s because of him. The man behind her, strong, stoic and almost silent. Almost silent except for his ragged breaths, his wet kisses against her flesh and yes, the look in his eyes which she can only describe as awe. The fact that he looks closer to crumbling than she’s ever been.

God, she loves him. She loves the way he touches her, the way he knows her, the way he trusts her and the way she knows she has his whole heart. That’s he’s given her everything, all he is laid bare for her to pick the bits she wants and throw the rest to the wind, separate the wheat from the chaff. But there is no chaff. There is just him and she wants all of it. Every last bit. Exactly the same as what he wants from her.

And that’s when she doubles over, when his fingers hit her deep inside and his palm drags across her clit and she can’t breathe, can’t see or hear or feel anything but the wave of pleasure as it crashes into her and through her. Uncoils that heat in her belly and leaves it to sear her veins, her nerves, her cells.

And she cries out his name, but it’s more like a choked whimper because he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even miss a beat as she clenches around him, as his fingers fuck her harder than before.

“Look Beth, look,” he says between kisses. “Look at you girl. Look.”

And she does. But she barely recognises the woman looking back at her. Confident and grown up and beautiful. But it must be her. It must be. Because there’s Daryl behind her and his mouth is on her and he’s kissing her and his fingers are inside her and she knows - she _knows_ \- it couldn’t be for anybody else. That he’d never touch anyone but her like this.

And that thought coupled with the brush of his of stubble against her shoulders has her hips bucking again and her body spasming against him. And he’s whispering to her. Whispering in his thick, heavy voice, crippled with lust that he loves her and that she’s gorgeous and strong and she did so well. And she watched and she came and _don’t you think that’s beautiful?_

And she does.

She really, really does.

And then she slumps against him, legs dangling, breasts heaving and he kisses her damp hair, splays a hand across her belly, rubbing soothing circles into her skin. 

And eventually - _eventually_ \- he withdraws his fingers from her, slow and easy and, even in the mirror, she can see his hand and her thighs are mostly soaked.

“Love you,” he tells her and beneath the lust and the grit of it, there’s something else. Wonder? Awe? Maybe even a little fear? It’s not a surprise really. He lost her once and then thought he’d lost her again. The fact that this scares him, that how much he loves her scares him, is nothing new. As with everything he’s been upfront about it. Confessing that to her even before he told her anything else about how he feels. In fact it was that confession that heralded the next because the truth was he didn’t even know he was saying it.

And she takes a moment to catch her breath, to come down from the high he’s just given her and watch them in the mirror. How he’s still big and rough against her, how even now he’s still lavishing attention on her neck  and shoulder, her jaw, her cheeks. Her scars.

There are times she can’t believe he is this gentle. There are times she can’t imagine him being anything else.

She knows he can pick her up now, tighten that arm around her waist and lift her so that she’s under him and take her from behind. But he’s been in control for long enough. And although she loves this side of him, loves that she can bring it out of him, there’s also something compelling in her newfound self-esteem that makes her want to use it.

And she’s fast. She always has been. And even as that arm _is_ tightening on her, she twisting out of his sweaty grasp. It’s easy. They’re both slippery with sweat, with saliva, with her and the slick between her legs and she uses that. Uses it slide out of his hands and onto her feet

And he’s frowning, but his pupils are almost completely black and his jaw is working furiously. She takes a moment to look at him at his broad shoulders, wide chest, narrow waist, cock hard and heavy and throbbing between his legs. She’s always found him attractive, even in the first days when they rolled up to the farm. Not that she ever thought this would happen, never in her wildest dreams. But there was something intriguing about this man, this man with his hard words and his flaring temper. No he wasn’t groomed and soft like Jimmy, he wasn’t playful and sweet like Zach. And the truth was the fact that she even looked at him in that context scared the crap out of her. But it doesn’t now. Because she’s had him seven ways from Sunday every day. Because she knows how kind and gentle he is. Because he’s the most beautiful man inside and out.

And _don’t you think that’s beautiful?_

And she does.

So beautiful in fact that she’s already straddling him, gripping his shoulders and he’s helping her to lower herself onto his cock. And even though she’s barely recovered from her last orgasm, the ache between her legs is already real and demanding. And even though she’s swollen and tender, the groan that escapes his lips and the way his hands clamp down on her hips is worth any discomfort.

“Fuck Beth,” he whispers as she constricts around him, bowing his head to her shoulder. And she knows it won’t take long for him. It hardly ever does.

So she works her hips hard against his and her rhythm is good, solid, strong. They struggled at first. Struggled with being awkward and jerky and figuring each other out. But they’re better now. Much better. She knows when to roll her hips and when to thrust, when to pick up the pace and when to slow it down.

And his hands guide her too, almost as much as the look in his eyes. And she wants to see that look now so she twists her hands through his hair where it grows long over his shoulders and tugs his head up to look at her.

And she knows he’s close, she knows he’s trying his best to last for her, to battle against himself.

So she rolls her hips harder against him, feeling how his groans start from his belly and travel up his throat and out of his mouth in something that is both beautiful and unintelligible. He swallows hard, tries to say something but she puts a finger to his lips.

“Come for me Daryl,” she whispers. “Come for me.”

And he does. Almost immediately, throwing his head back and arching his hips into hers, gripping at her, fingernails dragging marks along her ass, her hips, her waist. And his heat inside her is a new and wonderful warmth that burns and sears and even though the afternoon is insanely and ridiculously hot, it still feels perfect and she’s ready to go out of her head. But she holds him. Holds him while he shakes and trembles, kisses him while she whispers nonsense into his ear. Nonsense and truth and words she won’t remember as he wedges a hand between them and flicks her clit with his thumb. It’s not even seconds and she’s coming too, hard and fast, throwing her head back as waves of heat crash into her again, leave her suffocating, gasping for breath as she scratches at his scars, opens old wounds and remakes them.

And he’s whispering, “Look at you girl. Look at you.”

And she does, through her climax she looks over her shoulder at the mirror. At the line of her back, her spine writhing beneath her skin, that curve of her ass and his rough fingers pressing into her.

And it is beautiful.

And she’s beautiful.

And he’s beautiful.

 _And look at you girl,_ she thinks. _Look at you._


End file.
